A Moment's Reprise
by Kuroi Inanis
Summary: Sometimes the things we wish to say in the waking world can only be said in the sleeping world. ::Short but good::


**A Moment's Reprise**

By Kuroi Inanis

            Disclaimer: I don't own Utena, so don't sue me. I'm just a poor little ex-college student, so suing me would get you no money anyway. 

            Warning: Suggestions of twincest and abuse/rape from a family member, thought nothing too horribly graphic. The style of this story was purposefully written to flow like the character's thoughts are rambling, so yes I know many of the sentences are run-ons and extremely long. This is not poor editing on my part, this was done purposefully.

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            There are some nights when sleep comes to me so easily that it's almost like a blessing; my head hits the pillow and I'm asleep before my eyes even close. I enjoy those rare nights more than anything, if nothing more than for the simple fact that the nightmares don't surface. Nights like those force my tired, weary mind into a state of temporary suspension and give my sanity a rare chance to somewhat repair itself. 

Tonight, however, is not one of those nights; to the contrary, tonight is a night in which I wake up crying, blindly fighting my sheets until my eyes fly open and the terror recedes into the darkness. Shaking, sweating and struggling to muffle the sobs I rise quickly, petite hands pressed over my mouth as I stumble to the bathroom, making it just in time to unload the last pieces of a tortured sleep into the toilet via my mouth and nose. My twin stirs in his bed and rolls over, eyelids sliding open halfway to revealed glazed, sleep-filled eyes. His blue orbs watch in blurry concern as I stand on shaking feet and press the knob down on the toilet, finally banishing the last of the nightmare.

"You alright, Kozue?" he questions softly, making a move to rise and come to my aid. I wave him back and nod wordlessly, ignoring the vile taste of vomit in my mouth until I can get to the cabinet and destroy it with toothpaste. He's not pleased with my reply, as he never is, but like the obedient little child he's always been he honors my wishes, watching in silence as I brush my teeth before re-entering the room and making my way slowly back to my bed. 

"Go back to sleep, Miki…" I tell him, lowering myself into the nest of covers, "it's not even light out and we have class in the morning…" He throws me another worried glance and then nods, dropping his head back onto the pillow with his breathing almost immediately evening out. I envy him always, asleep or awake; most likely his sleep is pure, untainted by the demons determined to catch me in mine. His worlds are safe; a complete contrast to my own, which force me to forever look over my shoulder in paranoia be I awake or asleep. There will be no more sleep for me tonight now, not after that incident; for it has been almost forever since I've awoke so violently and in such a vulnerable state.

So instead I rise and move to his bedside, staring down at him in silence as his chest rises and falls in a slow, comforting manner that comes only as REM stage hits. Contentment touches his face and I am confident he is in some wonderful world where the evils of this one can't touch him; almost undoubtedly a world where I don't exist. This thought both saddens and relieves me – while I am forever doomed to wander in the shadows of our garden, I am eternally grateful he is not fated to do the same.

Hours go by and as I always do I find the strength only now to tell him all the things I long to confess in the waking world – confessions of a deep, unrequited love that flows so thickly in my veins that perhaps it was bred into my DNA the day we were conceived. How I remember that night we lay together when we were seven, touching and kissing like we thought the adults did and perfectly comfortable with each other in both mind and soul. I confess the hopeless wish to touch and kiss like that again, now that we both know the feelings and purpose behind the act. 

Then, as they always do, my unheard thoughts turn to the darker side of my life; to the countless men I've dated who have treated me like a red-light district whore. I mention men who have been worthless fuck-buddies that cared not to remember my name while I never bothered to acquire theirs. I've been called so many names in bed by both men and little boys so desperately wishing it were their ex-girlfriends they were screwing rather than me that I could write an entire book on baby names for boys. 

But without fail and with no shame I confess to Miki, my innocent half lying here in a dream-filled garden, the source of my whoring and the driving force behind my constant need to submerge myself in a sex-filled world; our very own father. The tears come as the stories about the constant and ruthless beatings pour forth, and many times I pause to compose myself before I continue. About how, when we were nine, he took me to the basement and forced me to have sex with him, smothering my screams out with a pillow held over my head until I finally passed out. About the beating I received once consciousness returned and how every week after that until this very day, this very moment, I continue to endure the same degrading rape and cop the same beating from a monster I once had the love in my heart to call my father. That first night was what had ripped me from the light and locked me into the shadows, a darkness I now found such sick comfort in that I could no longer live in the light even if given a chance to. There were no pillows now, no restraints or gags or threats; like all whores (and all abused children) know, I had learned respect and learned it well. 

As I finish my story I glance out the window, observing the sun as it starts to rise up over the horizon and bathe the world with its warmth. I pay one more look to my brother's face before I move to my own bed, sinking onto it and suddenly feeling seventy rather than seventeen. I have slept with my father's abuse for nine years and with my own guilty heart for four, and will continue to do so for perhaps the rest of my life and beyond. Someday, maybe, those scars will fade as the ones on my body will in time and I'll walk without the constant throb of self-loathing that burns like a candle at the back of my mind. Maybe one day will go by in my life where something, inside or out, won't hurt.

But when the sun goes down and night falls, I will always sleep with my demons.

                                                                                                FIN


End file.
